Monroe froze.
A gunshot roared.
Flinching, Monroe reflexively clutched his chest.
But he hadn’t been hit.
Renard, now with a clear line of sight, had shot the Hundjager in the side, below the right armpit, spinning him around. The Wesen assassin staggered back a half-step, fighting for balance.
Renard fired again, drilling him in the center of the chest. Another stagger-step backward, before Renard fired a third time.
The bridge of the Hundjager’s nose exploded in a crimson plume of blood. His body teetered for a long moment, then collapsed at the foot of the staircase.
Monroe looked around in a daze at all the dead bodies, society members and nonmembers, unable to find a single survivor. Then he heard a rush of noise coming from the kitchen.
* * *
Nick heard Renard call, “All clear!”
“Let’s go, people,” Nick said.
He strode from the kitchen, gun against his thigh, leading the bedraggled group of human survivors toward the front of the house. Hank brought up the rear, hopping awkwardly on his good foot but smiling in genuine relief.
Outside, sirens whooped. Red and blue lights flashed through the front and side windows. The chatter of police radios filled the night air.
Nick surveyed the collection of sprawled bodies and busted furniture—a macabre festival in utter ruin—looked back at the human survivors and then, pointedly, at Renard and Monroe.
“It’s over,” he said.
The former captives probably thought his words referred to their ordeal alone, but Renard and Monroe recognized their greater meaning. The Silver Plate Society was over. In twenty-five years, only the urban legends would remain.
EPILOGUE
Once they had completed what seemed like reams of paperwork, giving a decidedly non-Wesen slant to the slaughter and mass executions at the house in the woods, Nick and Hank stopped by Captain Renard’s office.
But before Nick could ask the question that had been bugging him, Sergeant Wu slipped past them and spread several newspapers across Renard’s desk.
“For your reading pleasure,” Wu said, then excused himself, leaving the two detectives alone with the Captain.
The newspapers featured lurid headlines in bold block type: SECRET BANQUETS SERVED HUMAN FLESH; MASS GRAVES EXPOSE CANNIBAL CULT; CAPTIVES FREED FROM “LIVESTOCK” PEN; SURVIVOR: “THEY WERE MONSTERS, WE WERE MEAT”; ROGUE CULT MEMBER SLAUGHTERS REST.
“Who was he?” Nick asked. “The Hundjager?”
“Traveled under a false identity,” Renard said. “Prints came back as belonging to Dominik Koertig, matching a second ID and passport we found in his hotel room safe. Quite the world traveler. Listed occupation is contractor. Let’s assume that’s a euphemism. Best guess? A freelance fixer hired by the Verrat to put an end to the Silver Plate Society. Not that they’ll ever admit it existed. They either found out when word of the flyers circulated or…”
“Ellen Crawford,” Hank guessed. “Never thought she was involved. When I saw her at the banquet, she looked out of place. And upstairs, she and her son must have squared off against the host, Widmark.”
“Blamed the society for her husband’s involvement and premature death,” Renard said, nodding in agreement. “Revenge is a powerful motive.”
“She sent an assassin,” Nick said. “Why go to the banquet?”
“It was personal with Widmark,” Hank surmised. “She wanted to kill him herself.”
“Frankly,” Renard said, “I’m glad none of them survived to get processed through the system. Lets us spin our own narrative. Explaining a cannibal cult is bad enough. And the human survivors, imprisoned in the basement, witnessed little. They believe the butcher wore a fright mask.”
“Might hold up with the press,” Nick said, “but there’s no mask at the site.”
Renard shrugged. “Evidence destroyed during the raid.”
Nick nodded, trying to take comfort in knowing they’d saved some lives, without forgetting all those who had suffered and perished for a barbaric feasting ritual. Some families would get to experience joyful reunions with their missing loved ones. As for the rest, once the remaining bones were identified they would have closure, if nothing else. Maybe they would find solace in that.
* * *
That evening Nick and Hank stopped at a local bar for an after-work drink. When Nick had knocked back the last of his beer, he looked at his partner, sitting on the stool next to him. Hank looked spooked, as if he had just woken from a particularly disturbing nightmare.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Could’ve been worse,” Hank said, taking the last sip of his bourbon and spinning the ice cubes around the bottom of the glass. Smiling, he shook his head. “And my cast made it through in one piece.”
“Ever regret having a Grimm for a partner?”
“Not at all,” Hank said, pushing the glass away and reaching for his crutches. “In this strange new world, who better to have my back?”
* * *
Later, at Monroe’s house, Nick and the Blutbad prepared for a double date with Juliette and Rosalee. Nick checked the time and saw they had a few minutes before they needed to head to Juliette’s place. Monroe came down the stairs, looking less than comfortable in a brown suit, white shirt and jade-green necktie.
“So Juliette managed to snag a reservation for four at Escapade?” he asked as he tugged and adjusted the knot in his tie.
“Yes,” Nick said. “So I’d better recover my appetite in a hurry.”
“Completely understand,” Monroe said, flashing a sympathetic grimace. “I hear they offer an extensive vegetarian menu.”
“That’s what I’m told,” Nick said. “Are you okay with that?”
“Me? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You weren’t tempted?” Nick asked. “To really fall off the wagon?”
Nick retained some residual guilt over pushing Monroe into a close encounter with the cannibal Wesen. He’d really had no choice—it had been their only chance to save Hank and the other captives. But he knew Monroe sometimes struggled to stay reformed, and Nick had chosen to disregard that for the greater good.
“Tempted, sometimes,” Monroe said seriously. “But not by that naked barbarism. If anything, I’m more dedicated to the reformed lifestyle than ever.”
“Glad to hear it,” Nick said.
“And, believe it or not,” Monroe added, “I actually enjoy Pilates.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Cath Trechman, my editor at Titan Books, for opening the door for me again, this time to participate in another show’s universe, and for coordinating everything with NBCUniversal. Also at Titan, thanks to Valerie Gardner, Katy Wild, Natalie Laverick, Helen Bertrand, and Antonio Nilletti. Thank you to Chris Lucero, Alex Solverson, Jessica Nubel, Kim Niemi, Ed Prince, and Lynn Kouf at NBCUniversal.
I’m indebted to Donna Spector, BS, DVM, DACVIM—Veterinary Internal Medicine Specialist at SpectorDVM.com, for helping me with the details of a true diagnosis masquerading as another condition. Any errors that may have occurred in dramatizing the disorder are solely mine.
Additional thanks to Matthew Passarella for helping me build an ad hoc show bible and for sorting pages and pages of character dialogue. This behind-the-scenes organizational effort helped me make my deadline. Thanks to Jeffrey Richards for answering some geocaching questions and offering name suggestions. Thanks to Andrea, the cook in our family, for helping me present the cannibal feasts. And finally, thanks to my son, Luke, for escorting my daughter, Emma, to/from summer drama class so I could write into the pre-dawn hours every night (day?) and not have to worry about setting my alarm clock.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Passarella won the Horror Writers Association’s prestigious Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel for the coauthored Wither. Columbia Pictures purchased the feature film rights to Wither in a prepublication, preemptive bid.
Joh
n’s other novels include Wither’s Rain, Wither’s Legacy, Kindred Spirit, Shimmer and the original media tie-in novels Supernatural: Night Terror, Supernatural: Rite of Passage, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Ghoul Trouble, Angel: Avatar, and Angel: Monolith. In January 2012, he released his first fiction collection, Exit Strategy & Others. Grimm: The Chopping Block is his eleventh novel.
A member of the Authors Guild, Horror Writers Association, International Thriller Writers, International Association of Media Tie-In Writers and the Garden State Speculative Writers, John resides in southern New Jersey with his wife, three children, a dog and a cat. As the owner of AuthorPromo.com, he is a web designer for many clients, primarily other authors.
John maintains his official author website at www.passarella.com, where he encourages readers to send him email at [email protected], and to subscribe to his free author newsletter for the latest information on his books and stories. To follow him on Twitter, see @JohnPassarella.
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Grimm: The Chopping Block Page 27
